The Score

Swing by Weldon Sandusky

By Hawa Jande Golakai

The LG flatscreen sounded a tiny ‘zooop’ as it went off, fading to black over the ‘Harpo Studios’ emblem, trademark of Oprah Winfrey’s empire. Heavy-hearted, Zintle Msengwana sighed to her feet. The queen of talk was serious; she was really going off primetime for good.

Zintle couldn’t believe it. Not much made her days cleaning up other people’s mess easier to stomach. If the halls were empty and the work hadn’t piled up, relaxing in front of talk shows and soapies was the one treat she allowed herself before she started her routine. Management in some lodges was strict, and allowed only good clients to book rooms. At The Grotto, class and wallet size equalled one and the same, and judging from the nonsense Zintle had had to clean out of some of the rooms, that equation told a sad, disgusting story. At some establishments, they were more lenient, allowing longer breaks if the day was slow, or generous, handing out barely used or expired stock to staff that wanted it. No such luck at The Grotto.

Zintle sprayed the shag-pile rug in the en-suite sitting room with carpet cleaner and started on the bathroom while it dried to powder. She sighed again, shaking her head as she removed a half-full wine glass rimmed with lipstick from near the bathtub. The bathroom smelled vaguely of alcohol. Ms Greenwood was a good woman but she drank too much. It was an open secret amongst the staff and management, who’d turned a blind eye and tolerated it for years, but now the stakes were higher. The lodge had stepped its game up in the bid for three-star status, and if Ms Greenwood wasn’t careful her job would be on the line. It would be terrible to lose her over something so shameful.

Pushing the lamp aside, she knelt beside the bundle on the floor, pulling back the duvet. She jerked and uttered a tiny whimper.

Deciding to leave the scrubbing of tiles, which she hated, for last, Zintle moved on to stripping the bed. She yanked the corner of the duvet spilling down the side of the mattress. Cursing when it didn’t budge, she inched over to the other end of the bed, pulling harder. It gave under her force, releasing a heavy weight that rolled against and buckled her legs. Zintle yelped, stumbled and fell against a side table near the window, overturning a lamp.

“Hhayi mhani. Jesus.” Pushing the lamp aside, she knelt beside the bundle on the floor, pulling back the duvet. She jerked and uttered a tiny whimper. Underneath lay Rhonda Greenwood, face down and back turned, head barely visible beneath the rumpled folds.

“Ma’am.” Zintle put a hand on her shoulder and shook gently. “Ms Greenwood.” No answer. “Ms Greenwood. Are you awake?”

She had no idea why she was whispering, only suddenly she felt scared. She shook harder, and watched Rhonda Greenwood’s pudgy, prostrate form jiggle back and forth under her hand with no will of its own. Gulping, Zintle heaved, dragging the edges of the duvet and Greenwood closer. The woman pitched and rolled, coming to rest on her side. Through the blonde strands falling across her face oozed a dried mess of thick, creamy-looking fluid inside and around her mouth. A dark red lump stood out behind her ear.

“The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet…” By Hawa Jande Golakai.

“It’s important to bring this devastatingly misogynist and sexist culture into the drawing rooms of society, supplanting the ever permanent discussions of politics and religious discourse, two themes sewn into the lifeblood of Pakistan. How we treat women and how they are perceived in society are sadly closely intertwined with how they see themselves. We must teach young girls the power of ambition, something they have in droves as children – ask any five-year-old girl what she wants to be and I doubt you’ll get “housewife” as an answer. These are protocols we imprint on them as they grow older, reminding them to never dip a toe out “too far”. ” ~ Maryam Piracha, ‘Don't Cry Like A Girl, Be A (Wo)man’

“It is difficult, when you are not part of a community, to see what happens within it. It may also be extremely difficult to come out of a community and reveal truths about how you’ve been mistreated due to your sexual identity. The struggle for social acceptance is a long, hard road, but it is not something that can be accomplished in isolation by the victimized. Rather, the instigators need to pause and rethink why they pour such hate on their fellow human beings. We might think that something is just a phase, and perhaps for a minority it is. For the rest, it is a gift we are cursing them for.” ~ Aaron Grierson, ‘Not Just A Phase’

“When seemingly decent people make jokes linking masculinity, dominance and superiority to the vile act of rape, and express pride over it, they don’t realize that the language they are using not only trivializes the trauma, horror and pain of rape victims and survivors, but also makes them culpable in promoting rape culture. In fact, it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women in society.” ~ Sana Fatima Hussain, ‘Talking Gender’

Over the last few months, the magazine has ceased core publishing operations while we reevaluate our direction and vision. We will be back soon–the work TMS does is too important for us to drift silently into the night–but it will take some time.

But while we’re taking a break to restrategize, bookmark this page… we hope to see you on the other side!